No Canons Required
by MoonGoddessShadow
Summary: God smiled. "I want to canonize you two." Dean's eyebrows arched and furrowed as he tried to process what that meant, to little avail. "Like at carnivals?" AU for the end of season 5 and on.
1. The End

A/N: Sooo... This idea just sort of struck me out of nowhere, and with the rumors of a sixth season, it'll probably be invalidated by the end of the season, but what the heck, let's do it. This is either a three or four chapter fic, depending on whether I want to post both endings, and updates should be vaguely regular, but promises can't be made, not in this uncertain life.

* * *

Dean Winchester sunk to the ground, body burning, aching, shuddering and pretty much running the gamut of all the other verbs he couldn't begin to wrap his mind around because it had gone blank from the pain, the worst pain he'd ever felt, and that was compared to a lifetime of being shot, shattered and smacked around by any and every evil son of a bitch in the books.

A hand, maybe his own, touched his chest, and it had to be his hand because suddenly he could feel the sticky warmth of blood coating his fingers and pain flared up extra fierce in the general area. Glancing down, he saw the blood gushing from his chest, turning his hand bright cherry red in the returning sunlight. Vaguely, he realized he needed to breathe, attempting a deep breath that turned into more of a rattling surge of unregistered pain that left his throat tasting like iron. Still, he stared at the blood on his hand blankly, mind too numbed by the pain and fading adrenaline to comprehend exactly what was going on; instead, he looked back up, eyes meeting his little brother's own glassy pair.

Sam was on his knees a few feet from Dean, face devoid of any expression beyond stunned awareness and marred by spattered blood, though he really couldn't remember whose it was anymore. He looked at Dean with vague recognition, a hand pressed absently to his side where blood flowed freely from a gaping wound. Suddenly, the kid seemed to gain some cognizance and smiled weakly at him.

"It's over. We won," he laughed weakly, sounding happier than he had in ages despite the blood and dirt caked all over him. His whole body began to shake with silent laughter, at least until he doubled over, coughing and hacking until a fresh layer of blood coated his hand. Still, he kept laughing, more and more blood surging from his wounds the harder he laughed.

Dean just tilted his head, still hazy on what exactly was going on and body nearly exploding with pain he could hardly register, there was so much of it. Why was Sam laughing? He couldn't even remember what they'd won, let alone what was so funny about it.

Then, still laughing like a hyena, Sam collapsed, and it didn't matter why he was laughing anymore. Dean barely registered shouting his brother's name as he lunged forward, completely unaware of the searing pain that was threatening to burst out of his body. He picked the kid up, cradling him in his arms, wondering what the hell was going on, what they'd won, what was so damn funny.

The surrounding world filled in slowly around them, filling his awareness with sudden noise that resounded way too loudly in his ears. There were shouts mingled with the clash of metal, cries of joy blended with distinct sobbing, screaming drowned out the sheer noise of mass movement and none of that mattered because Sam was bleeding to death in his arms and none of these new sights or sounds made any sense, not when he couldn't even figure out what the hell had happened, what had led to all of this.

Sam smiled broadly as his laughter died away, making eye contact with his brother again even as shining blood dripped down from the corner of his victorious grin and through the haze, Dean still couldn't pin down exactly why his brother was so freaking happy.

"We won," he repeated jubilantly, as if he could read Dean's muddled thoughts and for all the older Winchester knew, the kid could. "We won, it's all over. He's gone, they're gone, we won." Dean furrowed his brow, not even noticing the stinging that meant one of his eyebrows was split open and almost certainly needed stitches.

Sam chuckled again, hacking intermittently with blood spraying all over his already dirty hands and suddenly he was serious, grin dropping away but blood remaining in its crimson glory.

"I-I love you, Dean," he rasped. The kid relaxed in his arms, eyes never leaving Dean's own even as their luster began to fade and Dean shook him and repeated his name, begging him with desperate, fading words to hang on. Sam just smiled one last, feeble grin and whispered, "I love you." His head drooped back, eyes completely glossy but that damn smile pasted on his blank face.

Dean just stared at his brother, his little brother, the enormous fucking Sasquatch he'd always protected who now lay dead in his arms, and as the blind fury cleared his mental fog, the pain of every single wound overwhelmed him. He barely lowered Sam to the ground before crashing to the ground next to him, a hand that was most certainly his back to the gaping wound that aimed to consume his chest by way of flooding streams of blood and torn flesh.

His pulse was thunderous in his ears, jackhammering away at his thoughts that were fresh and new and he could remember everything that had gone down, from the angels and demons and burning skies to Michael and Lucifer and Sam saying no and Dean saying yes and they had won, sweet Jesus on a popsicle stick, they'd won.

Like his brother, he chuckled to himself, eyes fluttering shut. The apocalypse was done, through, over with, kaput. The pain didn't seem so bad anymore, not when he knew they'd saved everyone and the Devil was back in a cage in the deepest circle of Hell.

He felt himself fading, dying in a way he never had before: peacefully. Cuts, holes and bruises throbbed, ached, screamed across his body, but that didn't matter because they'd accomplished the single most important hunt of their lives. Sam was already gone, surely ready to meet up with Dean in Heaven or Hell, and honestly, Dean didn't care which one he ended up in. Bobby would miss them, even mourn them, but he would persevere. He was strong enough.

The city around him buzzed with whatever was going on after the last battle; Dean didn't care. Laying next to his baby brother in the middle of a city he'd never seen before in his life and never would again, surrounded by angels fighting demons all in their borrowed meatsuits, the blackness swarmed in around him, and for the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid of it.

Next to his kid brother, Dean Winchester died with a smile on his face.


	2. The Middle

A/N: I realize that this will undoubtedly contradict whatever Heaven we get to see in Supernatural, but dammit, I'm a writer, not a clairvoyant. And as much as I'd like to write Bobby or John, or even Shawn Spencer, as God in this fic, I thought I'd stick to a neutral here. No need to complicate things further. I won't beg for reviews, but it'd be nice to hear from someone. Love it, hate it, have suggestions, I don't care.  


* * *

Pure white light was the first thing Dean registered when he opened his eyes, coming at him from every direction, and it nearly blinded him as it filled every part of his mind. His eyes adjusted quickly, with details emerging from the light as he looked around: he was laying on the wood floor of a kitchen, surrounded by cabinets and countertops, with the light streaming in from huge windows all around him. Standing up, confusion dominated his mind as he looked around and he realized that, if the gold and green waves of corn outside the windows were anything to go by, he was in a house in the country.

"Dude, are we in a... farmhouse?" a familiar voice asked from his right and Dean spun so quickly to look at the person that the room had to play catch up with him. When he saw who it was, his heart jumped into his throat and he had to squash it back down, not that he'd ever admit that it was even there in the first place.

Sam stood on the other side of the kitchen island, clean and whole and dressed in his usual t-shirt-jeans combo. The older Winchester furrowed his brow, which didn't hurt like he thought it would–didn't he have a gaping gash up there or something?–but he wouldn't linger on that for very long because he was too confused by where they were and what was going on, and that was all piled on top of just how happy he was to see his brother in one piece.

"Um, yeah?" he replied hesitantly, a hand patting his chest to reaffirm that he wasn't going nuts. He was here alright, or something was making him think he was, not that he could see any sense in an evil plan that dropped then onto a farm in the middle of nowhere on one of the nicest days he'd ever seen. They'd seen stranger, but... It was just too much for him to consider right now. "Weren't we just..."

"Dying in the street after knocking Lucifer back to Hell?" Sam filled in, seeming just as hesitant as his brother as he looked around the kitchen and adjoining rooms, all of which seemed well lived in and offered few details to reveal who actually lived here. "Yeah, we were."

"And now we're in a farmhouse." Dean glanced around dubiously. "Even for us, this is kind of weird."

"I'm calling bull on that," a new voice responded. The brothers Winchester turned to the stairs, where a man, no older than forty, bounded into the kitchen with a smile on his lips. He was dressed like any other guy, wearing worn blue jeans, a baggy white t-shirt and no shoes, with a thick, well-trimmed beard to match his barely messy hair.

Dean raised an eyebrow, watching the stranger cautiously, not because he seemed threatening, because he gave off one of the most calming vibes Dean had ever felt, but because that was just how he'd been taught to act toward people who were this serene about two random guys appearing in their kitchen.

"Who are you?" he asked, keeping a trained eye on the guy, who just ambled up to the island and sat on a stool.

"We've never met personally, Dean, but you know who I am, and I definitely know who you are. You, too, Sam." He smiled pleasantly as the brothers exchanged matching glances. "You've met some of my kids, if that helps." The boys stared at him quizzically, trying to figure out who this nonthreatening stranger was, and suddenly it clicked for Sam. His eyes went wide, mouth dropping open slightly.

"No way," he murmured, utter disbelief dripping from his voice. "You're... God?" Dean's eyebrows shot up at the charge, eyes suddenly glued to the older man, who was just nodding with that same smile on His face.

"I am," He replied simply, glancing between the astounded Winchesters, both of whom just stared back at Him with wide eyes, because, honestly, it was God. They were in a room with God, and He just sat there in all His glory wearing old blue jeans and a t-shirt. "Not what you were expecting, I'm sure."

"You're sure no burning bush," Dean muttered without thinking, stomach lurching when he realized whom he'd just snarked back at, but he drew an unexpected laugh from the bearded man.

"I appear in a lot of different ways to a lot of different people," He replied cheerily. "That was just one of my better ideas. No better way to catch someone's attention than by presenting yourself as a flaming shrub." Dean grinned amusedly, but Sam, by his very nature, broke into the moment with another question.

"So if you're God, and we just died, then we're in Heaven, aren't we?" he deduced, once again receiving a nod from God, and this was so surreal, the older brother just couldn't hold back the questions cropping up as he sorted through the bizarre deluge of new information.

"Heaven is a farmhouse?" Dean asked, vaguely incredulous. At this, God just shrugged.

"Many forms, many people. And," He added, "I thought a farm would be a simple place for us to talk."

"Talk?" the older Winchester repeated, not sure whether this was a good thing or not.

"It's a good thing," God reassured, and it was still weird to Dean to have his thoughts read by angels, let alone the Supreme Ruler of Existence. Things never stopped being bizarre in their lives, not when the next step in weirdness was standing in a farm kitchen in Heaven with his brother and God, which is a thought Dean never in his life expected to think, and all the thinking about thinking started to warp his brain. Luckily, Sam was there to save him from an infinite loop of brain-melting thoughts about thoughts.

"If it's not rude to ask, why talk to us?" Sam inquired, and Dean gave him a sidelong look that wondered why he, Sam Winchester of the carefully unoffensive, un-rude words with strangers or elders, would even consider saying something that could be construed as rude to God of all... people? Beings? Gods? Whatever, he wasn't in the mood to continually destroy his mind right now. Things were complicated enough.

God seemed entirely unfazed by the question, though.

"Why not? After all, you helped prevent the Apocalypse while I was gone. You've dedicated your entire lives to saving people you don't even know. You've fought every awful thing in the books, and kept on doing the job anyway. You could have run from it and never looked back, but you didn't. You gave up everything in return for nothing." The Supreme Being sounded sincere, but Dean, never one to take something at its face value, wasn't entirely convinced, even if it meant contradicting the Word of God, which a voice in the back of his mind noted was almost never the best choice.

"We're not that awesome," he shot back. "We helped stop the Apocalypse because we're the reason it was even a problem. We're criminals. We hustle pool and scam credit cards to make money. We lie to almost everyone we meet. We drink all the time and screw random women in every town we visit. One of your angels even fell for us. We're not the saints you think we are." A smile quirked God's lips upon hearing that last comment, and after a second, He began His short rebuttal.

"I wouldn't have made grains ferment into alcohol if it wasn't meant to drink, credit card companies wouldn't be so easy to cheat if I didn't want guys like you to keep protecting the rest of my creations, and I certainly wouldn't have designed sex to feel good if you weren't meant to have it and enjoy it."

As this sunk in, the Bearded One gave the boys a smile that conveyed just how pleased He was (pleased as punch, if Dean had to guess) to He watch their eyebrows shoot up into their hairlines. Hearing God say sex was meant to be had and enjoyed wasn't high on their list of things they ever thought they'd hear God say, at least not the Christian god, and their expressions betrayed just how astonished they were.

The older Winchester spent a few seconds attempting to think of a way to segue from that point, his mouth opening and closing like that of a beached fish as sentences started and died in the same moment; God saved him from this struggle by piping up after a few seconds.

"The point I'm trying to make is that whatever you guys have done that's considered morally reprehensible, I'm willing to overlook that because of all the good you've done. I know you're not perfect. You're only humans, after all. I made you that way. But in your cases, the good definitely outweighs the bad. Besides," He added with a smile, "I like you two. You're interesting, even without the whole saving the planet angle."

"And that's why you want to talk to us, to tell us you like us?" Sam asked, trying his damnedest not to sound rude or incredulous, and succeeding for the most part.

"Well, that and a thing or two else," He replied, standing up and walking over to the old-fashioned red fridge in the kitchen in a sudden change of pace. Pulling out a jug of milk and three glasses, He smiled over His shoulder at the boys. "Want a drink? I guarantee it's the best milk this side of Purgatory. Valhalla's got nothing on us." Sam and Dean, thrown for a loop once again by the utter bafflement of being offered anything by God, just nodded in quiet acceptance.

It seemed God's default facial expression was a smile, because He gave them yet another of His good-natured grins and passed them both a full glass of the opaque white liquid. Each Winchester took a polite drink at first, still entirely bewildered by what manners were applicable in this situation, but as they drank and realized it really was good milk, cold and fresh, it went down quicker until it was gone.

"Thanks," Sam replied, setting his glass down and smiling back at God for the first time since they'd woken up in this strange farmhouse Heaven. Dean looked to his brother and laughed out loud before he even realized why: Sam had a thin white moustache over his upper lip. The kid raised a confused set of eyebrows at him, while God continued to grin. The elder Winchester motioned to his lip after a couple seconds of laughter, and Sam finally got the idea, wiping away at his milk moustache with a barely concealed grin of his own.

"Very funny, guys," he said, his voice lacking any of the usual venom from being the butt of the joke. "So really, why did you want to talk with us? If it's not just because you like us and all that, then what is it?"

"I've got a proposition for you boys, actually," God answered plainly, not drawing it out any longer, and thank, well, thank Him for that because there was only so much more weirdness Dean could handle before his brain melted out of his ears. "I want to canonize you two." Instantly, Dean's eyebrows arched and furrowed, processing what that meant, because it couldn't mean what he thought it meant. That just wouldn't make sense, and he thought he'd heard the word before anyway, just not in relation to what he was thinking about.

"Like at carnivals?" he asked reflexively, even though he knew that couldn't possibly be it, while Sam snorted with laughter.

"No, Dean," the younger Winchester replied, eyes back on God. "Canonization is when they make someone a saint. He wants to make us saints." The weight of those words must have struck the kid suddenly, because his eyebrows disappeared into his shaggy hair and his wide eyes snapped to God. "You want to canonize us?" The Supreme Bearded One shrugged.

"What's so hard to believe about that? You're both good guys, and frankly, some people have been canonized for less."

"Saints?" Dean repeated, the idea so unfathomable to him, he could barely process the magnanimity of it, and before he could delve into another rant about how they were the worst kind of people, God held up a hand.

"I know, Dean, you and Sam aren't perfect little followers, but that doesn't matter," He stated, leveling an even look at the older Winchester that spoke volumes. "You boys are some of the best men I've seen walk that little planet, and you deserve some credit for all the good you've done. If you really want to heft all that blame on yourselves, just think of it as repentance." Both of the boys considered the idea, and God again shrugged. "Of course, it's up to you. Being a saint isn't perfect, after all."

"How so?" Sam asked, folding his arms across his chest. Even from the research he'd done on saints in the past few years, he was curious to know what it actually meant.

"You'll obviously be the saints of something, and have to protect the people who pray to you and all that," He answered, listing the responsibilities off like they were nothing, which they probably were in comparison to being God. "I'll send you back to Earth, with your bodies, clothes, guns, all that stuff you had before, and you'll basically keep doing what you were doing before. Hunting evil, saving people, all that jazz."

"So we'll be the saints of hunting?" Dean clarified, still not quite able to wrap his mind around the full meaning of what was being offered. God simply nodded in response. "And we'll go back to our lives, moving from town to town, doing our own hunts but helping anyone who prays for our help too?" Another nod.

"There won't be another Apocalypse waiting for us, will there?" Sam asked, eyes guarded but curiosity seeping through his very demeanor.

"Nope, that's all behind you. Just old friends, the open road and the usual monsters," God answered serenely, and only now did the reality of all of this begin to sink in for Dean, all the potential good and bad that could come of it.

They would return to their previous lives, lonely and tiring and shitty as they were, but they could keep on saving other people's lives in the process. At least they would be doing good work, even if it was thankless; the alternative seemed to be hanging around up here, doing whatever dead guys did, which seemed to involve a lot of playing the harp if the cartoons and greeting cards Dean had seen got it right. If that really was what they did up here, then he was already sold on this whole canonization thing.

It meant he could see the Impala again, too, and that put a new smile on his face. What would happen to her otherwise? Someone would find her alone a random city, and either tow or steal her, and there was no way in Hell he was tolerating either option, or whatever unknown possibilities someone else could come up with. People were damn creative when they wanted to be, and he didn't trust most of them to keep her pristine any further than he throw them.

Most of all, they could see all their friends again, and even though those were few and far between in a hunter's life, the few they kept mattered.

"Can we fix Bobby up?" Sam asked suddenly, more than a little bit of hope eking into his words.

"It's the least I can do after all the good he's done for you boys," God replied, and a smile spread across Sam's lips before he could realize it was even there. "I'll even let you deliver the good news yourselves."

"And we'll still be able to see Cas, right? You're not going to reel his ass back to the Silver City?" Dean asked, similar hope glimmering in his hazel eyes.

"If he wants to stay with you two, he's fully allowed to do so, and let me assure you that he does want to stay." A matching grin burst onto Dean's face, and he shared a meaningful look with his brother, who nodded ever-so-slightly. The two looked back to God after a moment, smiles lingering.

"Alright, we're game." A now familiar smile bloomed on God's face once again.

"Great. Now," He added with a slightly more serious edge to His voice, "there are some things you're going to need to know. You'll be able to hear when people ask for your help. You're not going crazy, there really are other voices in your head when that happens. You won't die or age, but you can get wounded. You can jump between Earth and Heaven if you want, but try not to do it too often. Seriously, it throws off the balance if you do it too much."

"Got it," Sam replied, nodding as he filed away all the information.

"And, really, let Chuck write his gospels. The guy has to make a living, and it's not like he chose to be a prophet." Dean pursed his lips, but nodded grudgingly after a second, the same as Sam. Couldn't really fight the Big Guy's suggestions, even if they were just that. While he seemed more laid back than Dean had imagined, he would still bet money on God being able to deal out a smiting or two if it really came down to the wire.

"So how does this work?" the older brother asked. God stood up, motioning them both toward Him from their points on either side of the island, a command which they obeyed dutifully. Like they really had any other choice when God had them do something. He placed a hand on each of their foreheads, that same smile adorning His face.

"Just take a deep breath and relax," He said. "I've got the rest." The boys did as they were told, heads bowing forward instinctually. White light filled the room, engulfing Dean once again as everything sensory seemed to fade into the distance. The last thing he knew before the ether enveloped him completely was God whispering, "Thank you, boys."


	3. The Beginning

A/N: Alright, here it is: I've got two endings, and it was difficult to choose which one to use here, but I finally settled on the original ending I had for this fic. Unless you guys really hate this ending, the other will probably become a story of its own. This one got pretty long as it is; it could have become a short fic of its own, with all the expanding upon it I could've done. And in case any of you who've read my other stuff haven't noticed by now, I'm really interested in the idea of Cas traveling with the boys after the Apocalypse, and becoming more human. Not sure why.

* * *

When Dean Winchester opened his eyes, he was home: spread eagle across the front seat of the Impala, with a worn blanket tossed over him haphazardly. He glanced around blearily for a minute, getting his bearings as his sleep-addled thoughts tried clicking back into one coherent stream. He rubbed his eyes, mind flooding with recent events as his thoughts cleared, and that's when he shot straight up, scanning his surroundings.

Sam was in the backseat, long legs bent up on the seat and a threadbare blanket effectively mummifying him, but he looked peaceful. Good.

The Impala seemed undamaged, or at least the inside was, and they'd apparently been deposited in Bobby's scrapyard, because they were surrounded on every side by stacked cars, all in varying states of decay. At least he hoped they were in Bobby's yard, otherwise they'd have an interesting time explaining how two men who had been presumed dead by the law for years were now here to claim the car that had been found in a completely different city years after their supposed deaths.

But at least they were alive. Again. And not by demons or angels this time. By the hand of God Himself, to be saints. That just added a whole new layer of bizarre to their lives that he wasn't ready to think too hard about.

In the back, Sam stirred, eyes peeking open slowly. He glanced up and around, then propped himself up on his elbows and looked right at his brother with bleary eyes.

"We're back," he stated plainly, "and we're in your car."

"I think we're at Bobby's," Dean added, tossing the blanket to the side. He climbed out of the car, with Sam doing the same a few seconds later. A burst of warm sunlight hit his face, and he momentarily squinted, using his hand as a visor to look around; moments later, he spotted the Singer Auto Salvage sign and a grin blossomed on his face. Glancing over his shoulder to his little brother, he said, "Yeah, we're at Bobby's. What do you say we go scare the hat off him?" Sam raised his eyebrows, but didn't question his brother as the shorter man started off toward the house.

At the front door, Dean knocked a few times, waiting for the inevitable hollering that meant Bobby had heard him, and he wasn't disappointed.

"Who the hell is it?" the older hunter bellowed, though from the sound of it, he made no effort to actually come to the door.

"The Saints," Dean shouted back with a grin, doing his best to not sound like himself. Sam just rolled his eyes, knowing that antagonizing Bobby was probably not the best course of action right now.

"Go away," Bobby growled in response, sounding none too happy to have someone joking around at his door. Persistent as he was, Dean knocked again, eliciting a string of colorful swears followed by the distinct sound of a wheelchair rolling over wooden floorboards. From behind the door, he heard the audible click-snap of a shotgun being readied. "I said go away."

"Sorry, Bobby, we can't do that," the older Winchester replied, maintaining his less Dean-like tone of voice. Behind him, Sam frowned his usual frown of exasperation, but made no comment as the door swung open suddenly. A shotgun was leveled expertly at Dean's chest, the older man staring menacingly at him for a second; Dean's hands shot up in surrender even though the same stupid grin was still plastered across his face.

A second passed as realization sunk in, Bobby's eyes going wide. He lowered the shotgun slightly, eyes darting between Dean and Sam, the latter of whom waved even as he mirrored his brother's arm motion. The shotgun snapped back up to them, halting the pleasant smile growing on the taller Winchester's face.

"What's going on here?" Bobby snapped, gun shifting between the brothers. "What are you?"

"It's us, Bobby. We're back," Sam replied, as if the simple truth would actually fly with a seasoned hunter. In true fashion, this didn't even faze Bobby.

"Let me guess, an angel raised you both from the dead," he snarked, drawing a quirked eyebrow from Dean.

"Not quite," the older brother replied, "but close. Really, Bobby, it's us. We can prove it." He took a cautious step forward, and when the man didn't immediately shoot him, he stepped through the doorway and picked up a flask on the table next to the door. He tipped it up all the way, taking a long swig of the contents before passing it to Sam, who was right behind him in crossing the threshold. The kid took a drink of his own, setting the flask back down on the table and smiling hopefully at Bobby.

"We can drink the holy water and cross the salt lines," Sam said evenly, never breaking eye contact with the older hunter. "It's us, one hundred percent Winchester." The bearded man eyed them both dubiously, but lowered his shotgun into his lap nonetheless. A long, appraising moment passed, and then he rolled back, eyes still on them as he nodded them into the house.

"Get in here and shut the door," he ordered, wheeling into the living room without looking back. Sam and Dean followed behind him, taking stock of the elder hunter's house. It had fallen into even deeper disorder since they'd last seen it days, weeks or months ago, however long it had been since they'd died fighting Lucifer back into Hell. Scattered among the books littering the tables, floors and even windowsills were empty or half-empty liquor bottles of all persuasions.

"Here," Bobby said, doing a one-eighty to look at them suddenly. He held a pair of knives out in front of him, both one hundred percent polished silver. Sam glanced to Dean hesitantly, but the latter, having already gone through this once, just shrugged and took a blade. Without flinching, he made a small cut in his palm, drawing a negligible line of blood. Sam watched his brother do it, then followed suit, nose wrinkling as he cut a little line into his hand with the silver.

"You good now?" Dean asked, passing his knife back to Bobby, who wiped it clean on a garage towel.

"It's not comprehensive, but I'll take it," the elder hunter replied, gruff demeanor partially dropping away. He re-sheathed the blades and looked up at them, eyebrows raised expectantly. "The Apocalypse is over. I buried you boys last week. You mind telling me what's going on now?"

"Nothing big," Sam immediately replied, attempting to sound as reassuring as he could. "We're done with the end of the world, I promise."

"Damn straight we are," Bobby said, "I'm not in the mood to take much more of that crap." Dean chuckled at that, drawing the older man's attention to him, expression serious. "If angels didn't bring you boys back, but I was close, then what did it?" A moment passed where the boys exchanged looks, all but speaking telepathically, but there really was no debate going on; after all, it was Bobby. He of all people deserved the truth.

"God," Dean answered simply, enjoying the way Bobby's eyebrows shot up in shock as the revelation sunk in.

"God?" he repeated with more than a little trepidation; both boys nodded in response. "As in white beard, flowing robes, almighty smiter God?"

"Yup," Dean replied cheerfully, leaning up against a desk thick with dust. "One and the same. Doesn't seem like he does a whole lot of smiting, though." Bobby just snorted.

"Read the Old Testament and see how you feel about that," he replied, but the usual bite in his words was lacking. Dean's lips quirked into a small smile, but he said nothing, and the elder man took the opening to ask another question. "Alright, so there's no cataclysmic tragedy you're here for, but God sent you back. What is it, a reward? You get to finish up your lives here?"

"Not quite," Sam said, crossing his arms across his chest. "Well, sort of. I'm not even sure it's a reward in the long run, but it's the right thing." Bobby glanced between the Winchesters, mouth set in a hard line.

"What is it you boys aren't telling me?" Again, they looked to each other, Sam nodding slightly at Dean, who then looked back to their stand-in father.

"This is going to sound really weird, but God, uh... God made us saints," he answered, smiling sheepishly.

"Canonized is what Dean is looking for here," Sam added, more matter-of-fact about the whole situation, fitting typical Sam behavior to a tee. Defying what Dean thought was possible, Bobby's eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his trucker hat.

"God made you two saints?" he asked, almost disbelievingly. Dean frowned, vaguely hurt by the man's tone of voice, but completely understanding the shock at the same time. Most of the time, saints were virtuous monk types, not hard-drinking, hard-living vagrants like them. At least God's reasoning made sense.

"Yeah, he did," Sam replied. "We were shocked, too, believe me."

"Shock don't begin to cover it, boy. Not that I don't think you deserve it," Bobby added as an afterthought, "but it's damn bizarre. I mean, I've heard rumors and a legend or two about saints actually walking the earth, just never thought I'd actually meet one, or that they'd turn out to be you two idjits."

"Hey!" was Dean affronted response, earning himself only a level stare from the older hunter.

"You know damn well hunters ain't exactly the noble and virtuous type. Most of us'll be lucky to make up to the Pearly Gates, what with all the killing and law-avoiding we've gotta do just to get the job done. Sainthood isn't quite what any of us are shooting for." He paused a second, glancing between Sam and Dean, and then released a quiet sigh. "But if it was gonna happen to anyone, it might as well be you boys."

"Bobby–" Sam began, but he was cut off by an upraised hand before he could get any further.

"Don't get all sentimental on me, boy," the older man ordered. Sam just nodded slightly, a barely-there smile appearing on his lips; Bobby's way of showing affection was about as open as Dean's.

"Right, sorry."

"So," Bobby started, maneuvering away from the moment, "I suppose you're gonna be the patrons of hunters, and not the big game sort." Sam and Dean both nodded in the affirmative. "So what're you doing here? Shouldn't you just grab your car and start gallivanting around like God's littlest warriors?"

"Aw, come on, Bobby," Dean shot back, almost affronted by the older man's obvious underplaying of the importance he held in their lives. "God zaps us back onto earth and you think we wouldn't come see you?" In classic fashion, Bobby raised a doubting eyebrow, to which Dean quickly ceded, "Alright, he dropped us off inside the Impala, but this is the first place we were gonna come anyway." A mischievous grin appeared on the older Winchester's face. "Besides, God's got a surprise for you."

The capped man's mouth twisted into a disbelieving frown as he said, "And that would be...?"

"He sent legs."

* * *

They bummed around Bobby's house for a couple weeks, working on cars, cleaning the house, cooking the odd meal or two, just readjusting to life without the weight of the world resting on their shoulders. It was quiet, as quiet as two pranking brothers and their grumpy surrogate father could be when confined to one house. They made a few grocery and supply runs, but for the most part, they stuck close to the junkyard and got back into the swing of things.

Bobby himself was readjusting to walking again, though he got his groove back pretty quickly. It took him more effort to not go crazy with Sam and Dean so happy all the damn time. He harped on them when they got into a wrestling match on the floor of the kitchen, trying to decide who had to do the dishes, and about had an aneurysm when he found the pair in the living room vying to see who could stack the highest pile of books, all of which were one-of-a-kind tomes that wouldn't take well to falling over because two morons got competitive.

For the most part, though, he was glad to have them around, even for all the trouble they caused. It put some energy back into the house, making it seem sunnier and more alive than it had in decades. Maybe that was in part to the thorough cleaning they put the old place through, but even when it was pristine in the past, it had never been alive like this. They were the closest things he had to sons, and truth was, he was damn happy to have them back, whether he acted it or not.

To add to the general commotion around the house, Castiel arrived the day after the boys did, standing awkwardly on the front step. He explained his situation as Bobby ushered him in, the older man calling the brothers in from their odd jobs out back.

Apparently, right after God had talked to Sam and Dean, he had spoken with Castiel, laying out his options and how they could work in conjunction with what the Winchesters had chosen. Among the innumerable choices were the options to return to his post watching over Earth, become the leader of his former garrison, or stay on Earth as a physical extension of God's will. According to him, though, there had never been any other choice: he would stick by his friends, even if it meant defying God, though apparently the Supreme Being had just laughed when he heard that.

As it was, he was right where he wanted to be, with no standing orders on when to return to Heaven and his full angelic powers restored, with a little extra to boot. He was promoted to be the official leader of his garrison, but those duties would only become important if the rest of those angels had to come to Earth themselves. For now, he was free to do as he wished.

As soon as Dean saw Castiel, he pulled the angel into a tight hug, completely forgetting about manly pretenses when he saw his friend. When he stepped back, he was only vaguely abashed about his lapse, and it was all forgotten when Sam gave the angel a hug as well. Cas repeated his story for them, though they already knew some bits from their own talk with the Lord, and when he was done, asked tentatively if he could stay with them. The Winchesters laughed outright, while Bobby just gave him a wry grin and admonished him for even thinking they wouldn't let him stay.

The following days dissolved into an even more chaotic mash of constant movement. Between Bobby and the boys, they better acquainted the angel with the minutiae of human life, even if he was technically more inhuman now than he had been a few weeks ago. They knew that if he was going to spend any time on Earth with them, he was going to need to know more than the bits and pieces he'd picked up over the last few years.

Dean demonstrated how to fix a car, Sam showed him how to use a computer and Bobby taught him the fine art of cooking, with both gas station food and real supermarket food. Disasters cropped up in every instance, but nothing so major that he was banned from trying again, though the grease fire that cropped up when he tried making french fries almost got him kicked out of the kitchen, and earned him several days worth of teasing from Sam and Dean.

Things were about as uneventful as they could be for the first week or so, but life had to catch up with them eventually. A vindictive spirit started attacking people not far from Bobby's house, and the older hunter volunteered to go, mostly just to get himself back in the game. It was only a salt and burn, but everyone thought it'd be better to start off easy.

Besides, Bobby wanted to get out of the house because, as if everything had decided to happen all at once, the boys discovered that in addition to the onset of occasional voices in their heads asking, often begging, for help, they could pop in and out like Castiel, and Dean proceeded to abuse the holy hell out of it, like he didn't know how to use stairs anymore. Sam wasn't quite so bad about it, though he did jump around to mess with Dean when necessary.

For the most part, the calls for help were infrequent, at least for now. They only had to jump to a call once a week or so; Cas mentioned that once the so-called Winchester Gospels gained a more general awareness, they'd probably have more work on their hands. Even after a couple weeks to process everything, that was completely freaking absurd, the idea that people would read about their lives religiously.

To that end, they'd paid Chuck a visit, not because he thought they were dead, because he'd seen everything, including their talk with the Big Guy, but because they genuinely wanted to see the writer. And because they wanted to tell him in person that he was allowed to start publishing again, even if they weren't entirely crazy about the idea. At the very least, they promised not to hunt him down when he started putting out books again.

In the mean time, though, they were saddled with the usual chores around Bobby's, plus a saintly job every few days; these were the only times they jumped to a job. Dean staunchly refused to take anything but the Impala on regular hunts, and Sam really didn't argue. It just seemed right, being back in the front seat, watching the country fly past them. After all, they'd grown up in that car, and in the end, it was hard to imagine being away from it.

Castiel and Bobby came on a few jobs, the former more so than the latter, and sometimes the pair even worked together. Cas was getting good at hunting, even without his added mojo, and Bobby appreciated working with a partner sometimes. Just as often as that happened, though, the older man hunted on his own; after all, he'd been doing the job since the boys were smearing mashed peas on their onesies.

As weeks turned into months, they spent less and less time at Bobby's, just like they had in years before. They returned to cheap motels and diner food, though they never went more than a month without popping in on him. Castiel stuck with them almost exclusively now, claiming the once empty backseat as his own. He even managed to ditch the same suit Jimmy had put on years ago and get some more appropriate hunting gear.

The first time one of them was seriously injured, they freaked out. After all, a set of werewolf claws to the chest used to mean weeks of recovery, if not a close brush with death. Now, it just meant an assload of pain and a few days of taking it easy. Weird as it was, it at least it cut down on some of the worry during the hunt. They didn't exactly cut loose and go nuts during any hunts after that, but they took a few more chances than they would have before. Besides, after staring down the End of Days, a vampire, kappa or even a few demons didn't really seem that difficult anymore, and the accelerated recovery time added to that mentality.

More difficult than hunting, though, was being able to pop between Heaven and Earth. On their initial trip upstairs, Saint Peter had shown them around, leaving their family for last. When he walked away, leaving them alone outside their parents' place, an exact replica of their house in Lawrence before the fire (different things for different people, Saint Peter reminded them), Dean could almost hear Sam's heart thudding against his colossal chest. It had taken everything he had to knock on that door, but when his mom opened it up and smiled a thousand watts at him, all his doubts were swept away.

She hugged them both, pulling them inside the way only a mother really could. Sam could hardly talk at first, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and even though Dean was on the verge, too, he'd never admit it. Their dad came in at the same time, hugging both so tightly that they could barely breathe. They hung out in that house for hours, talking, crying (almost entirely on Sam and Mary's part), trading stories and apologies and confessions.

After that first time, it became markedly easier. They visited every so often, when they weren't on a hunt or around Bobby's house. Sam saw Jess, who knew John and Mary by virtue of Mary already knowing about Jess from years of watching over Sam; they got along fantastically well, and there was none of the lingering animosity over her death that Sam had expected. Dean was sure there was some crying, though. With Sam, there just had to be.

The elder Winchester himself visited Jo, even though it was sort of weird at first–admitting mutual attraction after the way they'd parted tended to be a bit strange, he supposed. They got past it eventually, and he might have been the only person alive who could say he had a girlfriend in Heaven. It was odd to even say he had a girlfriend, never mind that his status as 'alive' was, at best, sketchy.

The years rolled on by; they watched things change around them like they had for their entire lives, with a few new exceptions. For one, they had stopped aging entirely. Their hair still grew, their stomachs still rumbled, old scars still ached sometimes, but they were stuck at thirty-one and twenty-six forever. That meant that they had to watch Bobby grow older, being one of the few exceptions to the usually short life span of a hunter. After a while, he couldn't even hunt anymore, though in true Bobby fashion, he was pushing seventy-five by then. He still had the usual Bobby spark and wit, but even he admitted his reflexes and aim just couldn't be trusted anymore.

He kept on kicking for almost twenty years after that, begrudging the boys the entire time for never looking a day older. They visited more regularly, helping around the house even though Bobby hated it when they treated him like an old man. He was as spry as any ninety-two-year-old could be, with a sharp mind right up to the very end. Unlike most every other hunter as active as him, he died quietly in his sleep; the boys gave him a traditional funeral pyre with heavy hearts, even knowing that they could see him any time upstairs.

Thanks to mass publication of the Winchester Gospels in their entirety, the calls for help were more frequent now. Chuck continued writing about their more interesting jobs well into his old age, and they duly kept up their work, of the hunting and saintly varieties, with Castiel by their side. Bobby's house became their retreat, and they maintained it with the utmost respect. Aside from the usual care, Sam continued adding books to the already impressive collection, while Dean kept up the salvage business. In their minds, it helped to maintain his legacy.

When they were on the road, people rarely recognized them, but there were a select few who knew. From these devout hunters, they received free beers and silent nods of thanks, and that was all they needed.

Even as the world changed around them, they roared down the backroads that never quite fell out of use, ate at the mom and pop diners that stayed open despite the chains spreading like weeds around them, stayed at the dodgy motels that looked like they would fall apart at any moment and yet didn't. They fought evil and saved lives, and did a damn good job of it.

It wasn't what most people would want, but for them, it was all they needed. They were living legends, two saints and an angel walking the earth and kicking ass, and as the Good Lord would put it, it was good.


End file.
